


Revenge and Other Confessions

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dealing With Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, slightly angsty, slightly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:47:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4383347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Oswald is King of Gotham, he can revel in the misfortune of a former friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge and Other Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny appeared recently and wouldn't go away - so I wrote it up.  
> Besides, the more fic to help with the S1 honeymoon being over, the better :D
> 
> As ever, I'm more than happy to chat in the comments.

He is a very busy man at the moment, so busy that when the news about Detective James Gordon had filtered through to him eventually, as all news does – he simply did not have time to act on it immediately. He is making connections, shoring up defences, planning long-term attacks – avidly, gleefully plotting – doing, in short, what he does best.

There might also be other reasons behind his refusal to deal immediately with this unexpected news.

He is still furiously, incandescently angry, for one. Not only had Jim judged him alongside Falcone, and seemingly found him wanting, but he had seemed to forget at one stroke all that Oswald had ever done for him, and would have left him to his fate with Maroni – had Oswald not reminded him of the favour he owed. Belittled and rejected and betrayed – by his only friend, and for all to see.

The other reason is rather more humiliating. More raw. He is hurt. Horribly, painfully hurt. He liked Jim. He trusted Jim. He had wanted to be his friend, wanted his company, wanted to share his successes with him, and help Jim win his own battles. The sudden, searing realisation that Jim not only did not feel the same way, but must – on some level – hate him enough to be content to see him dead…he could barely let himself think about it.

Luckily, long experience had taught him that anger was more infinitely empowering than sadness, and so he had focused gratefully on the anger instead. He had grand plans, originally, was going to engineer some kind of humiliating demotion, revel in his downfall – but he has honestly had no time for personal revenge, focusing solely on business for a month now.

Besides, fate – it seemed – had taken care of it for him in the meantime. The news was that Jim Gordon had apparently been brought low by a fall during the mayhem at the warehouse – that upright spine of his damaged, making him a liability in the field. A fall from grace, Oswald thinks smugly – _his_ good graces, specifically.

He promises himself, though, that when he does have a free moment he will permit himself a delicious, gloating visit. Oswald expects he will be making good progress by now, ready to return to work, surrounded by devoted and supportive friends – but he could still put in an appearance. Remind him of their prospective positions – he the king of Gotham, all-powerful, and Gordon: a run-of-the-mill detective despised by his superiors, forever weakened by his injury – a salutary reminder of his actions that day.

He selects a particularly good bottle of brandy to take along as token of his wishes for his good health. He has no doubt it will be obstinately refused, but he enjoys being able to offer such fine gifts, befitting his status.

**

A free moment finally arrives – just over a month after the dust has settled – and Oswald puts on one of his nicest new suits, and has Gabe drive him to Jim’s apartment and wait in the car. He carefully chooses a more nondescript car than usual. He has deliberately elected to take a judicious step back from work for a brief period (while still receiving reports) to see how they all react when he loosens the reins a little – how the mice will play when the cat’s away. It’s a good way to spot malcontents and rebels – stamp on them quickly, or save them for a longer game.

Knocking sharply at Jim’s door, he waits, summoning up his most condescending smile. He is rather surprised to feel anger rushing up at the thought of seeing him again. He is choleric by nature – he knows that well, but rage has usually hardened to cold resentment by this point, isn’t quite so volatile.

Still no answer. He taps his foot impatiently, and knocks harder – listening carefully. He can hear some sounds within, gradually approaching the door, and he straightens up in anticipation.

When the door opens to reveal a haggard looking Jim Gordon, who stares at him in befuddled surprise – he can feel his own eyes widen. He works quickly to recover himself, his tone deliberately oily.

‘Detective. I heard of your…unfortunate incident, and wanted to stop by to…’

‘Gloat?’ offers Jim, his voice rough.

Oswald tilts his head a little, not denying it – feeling his own fake smile curdle and turn sour on his face. He nods at the door.

‘May I? Or have you forgotten your manners?’

‘Why not?’ Jim opens the door with an exaggerated flourish, followed immediately by a wince that Oswald’s sharp eyes do not miss. Too wide, too sudden a movement, clearly.

His eyebrows arch when he sees the apartment. The curtains are closed, despite the fact that is early afternoon, and the room is stuffy and cluttered. An air of neglect hangs over the place.

When he turns, he sees that Jim seems to be in a similarly unpleasant state. Unshaven, thinner – and wearing a wrinkled loose t-shirt and sweat pants. His eyes are not quite as clear and steady as usual, and although he is not drunk, Oswald can also tell he is not quite sober. He wonders if it’s from the night before, or if he has been drinking today.

‘Well?’ asks Jim. ‘This do it for you?’

Oswald’s mouth purses. Jim is certainly brought low – much lower than he would have expected. There’s a superficial sense of satisfaction in the recognition that someone who wronged him has been punished, but - oddly - there’s no joy in it. Disappointment makes him sharp-tongued.

‘I did not expect to find you wallowing in this’ he gestures dismissively at Jim, at the room, and curls his lip, _’state.’_

Jim’s eyes brighten at the jibe – it seems to enliven him. Angry, then. Looking for a fight – a release. Well, whatever anyone might make of their relationship, it had certainly never been insipid.

‘Oh. So you’ve imagined this, then? How did it go? Did I lose my temper? Throw you out?’

Oswald smiles unpleasantly.

‘I certainly imagined rather more well-wishers and comforters. Where are your loyal friends?’

Jim runs his tongue over his teeth

‘I didn’t need pity. You’re not here to offer me pity, are you, Cobblepot?’

Oswald snorts contemptuously.

‘I’d say you’re more than adequately stocked with self-pity, detective. You’ll get no extra from me.’

Oswald sees a flash of anger in his eyes at that, but it is followed with a bitter huff of amusement.

‘Well – you did promise you would always be honest with me’

‘Yes, and I keep my promises. I don’t need reminders’

Oswald could have bitten his tongue. That retort was too fast, too raw sounding – put him at a disadvantage.

Jim regards him, comprehension dawning on his face.

‘Ah – still sulking about Falcone?’

Oswald forces himself to answer more slowly this time, deliberately nonchalant.

‘Your lack of political nous is unsurprising to me, James – backing Falcone was deeply unimaginative, but predictable. Your obvious desire to leave me to Maroni’s tender mercies, though, – well, I’d say that warrants some _sulking,_ wouldn’t you?’

There’s split second of confusion on Jim’s face before his eyes harden and he shakes his head dismissively

‘Think what you like, Cobblepot’

‘Oh, I shall.’ He makes a little show of looking interestedly round the apartment. ‘I may drop by again. It was…entertaining.’

‘Who says I’ll let you in again?’

‘I think your self-pity likes an audience’

‘No-one else seems to enjoy the performance’

Oswald lifts his chin to regard him, and when he speaks, his tone is deliberately derisory

‘Please don’t compare me to any of those…. people you choose to associate with. We both know _I’m_ made of much sterner stuff’

He walks towards the door, feeling Jim’s eyes on his back. With his hand on the handle, he turns to face him for a parting shot.

‘And do make an effort to attend to your personal grooming. If not for your own self-respect, out of courtesy to any visitors. I have never allowed my standards to slide, even with…’ he tapped his bad leg.

And on that satisfying note, he left.

 

**

 

He allowed two days to pass before he visited again. Let James wonder if he would, in fact, return. In his spare moments that day, his mind had wandered to his visit. He must admit, he had not expected to see James in such a reduced condition but – he supposes, perhaps it is to be expected? A man used to strength and speed and vitality, used to exerting discipline and control over his body, and having it obey his commands. How frustrating to find that control diminished? To know that no matter how hard he tried, it would not perform exactly as he wanted it to?

Oswald’s hand moves reflexively to his bad leg, rubs his knee absently. He himself had never had a very high opinion of his physical prowess even before his injury – his physical disadvantages had been driven home to him enough through the beatings he received at school. Still, it had been infuriating learning to cope with _limitation,_ and with the pain, and the tiredness that the pain brought. Frightening to feel even more vulnerable than usual in physical situations, where his weakness was immediately apparent and a target. And shaming to know that people watched him as he moved, and were repulsed by him. Or, worse still, amused.

 

**

 

Oswald raps the door smartly, and does not have to wait so long for a reply, this time. When the door opens, he does not wait for an invitation, but simply walks in arrogantly, assured of himself, brushing past Jim in the doorway.

Once inside, he turns to regard him with a critical eye, leaning on his umbrella. Jim’s still in a t-shirt and sweat pants, but at least it’s not the same ones he wore before. He still needs to shave, too, but from the faint scent of lemon Oswald had picked up as he walked close by him, he at least seems to have bathed. He lets his gaze flicker round the apartment again. The curtains are open now, although he’s not exactly sure that’s an improvement. He hears Jim step towards him, a slight unevenness in his walk now.

‘Shouldn’t you be busy running the city?’

‘You flatter me, James. I’m a businessman, that’s all. And while my concerns might recently have expanded significantly, I take care to ensure that I have time to take some much-needed relaxation’

‘And this is relaxing for you, is it?’

Oswald smiles nastily – no response required. He glances significantly at the sofa a couple of times, hinting for Jim to ask him to sit down. When Jim is not forthcoming, Oswald purses his lips at his lack of manners as a host and sits down anyway. After a moment, Jim sits in the armchair, watching him. Oswald raises an eyebrow.

‘Aren’t you going to offer me a coffee?’

‘I didn’t exactly invite you.’

‘You didn’t exactly say no, either. Besides, it’s not as if I’m fighting my way through crowds of well-wishers. You really ought to be more grateful.’

Jim sighs exasperatedly, but rises from his chair, leaning rather heavily on one side as he does so – his knuckles almost white. When his back is to him, and he is working at the small kitchen counter, Oswald asks curiously,

‘I know GCPD do everything as shoddily as possible, but has your physical therapy really been so poor?’

His hands still a moment, and Oswald can see tension running unevenly across his shoulders.

‘Didn’t get on with the therapist.’

‘No? Too nice? Too pitying?’

Jim is silent, and Oswald pats himself on the back for his powers of perception.

Jim heads back through with the coffee. Oswald grimaces after taking a sip.

‘I’ll bring my own next time’

A smirk pulls at the corner of Jim’s mouth, and he settles himself gingerly back in his chair.

‘So. What do you do with your days, when you’re not, well…brooding?’

Jim takes a sip of his coffee and narrows his eyes at him.

‘What do you suggest I do?’

‘You must want to return to work at some point – I imagined you would have been working towards that assiduously. Dragging yourself there by your fingernails, if necessary. Surely you might have tolerated the physical therapist if…’

‘It was…it felt…’ Jim’s jaw tightened. _'Humiliating'_

Oswald shrugs.

‘Yes, well – our types of injuries are not for the faint of heart’ He notices he’s said ‘our’ when he had hoped to stay loftily separate. He is hoping that James hasn’t noticed, but he seems to seize on this with interest.

‘How do you cope?’

Oswald sighs.

‘Cope with it? It just _is,_ detective. I can exact revenge on those who caused my injury – but _it_ has to become part of me. Let my enemies see it as a weakness. Let them underestimate me. I’m used to dealing with pain, and it makes me stronger.’ He tilts his head a little. ‘Besides – I couldn’t spend all _my_ time wallowing – how _dull_. My brain would atrophy. There’s work to be done.’

Jim is watching him, head tilted as he considers his words. Oswald feels a little stab of bitterness. So _now_ Jim Gordon is willing to have an actual conversation with him, when he’s at his lowest ebb and has chased all his other friends away.

‘It just…seemed so slow, and _pointless._ And she kept talking about the things I wouldn’t be able to do…and I just…’

Oswald shakes his head. ‘All or nothing, then? Back to one hundred percent or it’s not worth it? Really, Jim – how naïve. How idealistic. Adapt or perish – I’ve been telling you that for months, now. Didn’t you listen?’

Jim smiles bitterly. ‘Apparently not’

 

**

 

On the occasion of his third visit, he makes it to Jim’s apartment in late afternoon – the day having been unexpectedly busy. It’s Gotham and winter and streetlights are already on, and people scurry to and fro with their heads down, keen to escape the biting cold. Oswald wraps his red scarf snugly round his neck before he leaves the car.

When he knocks on Jim’s apartment door, there is no answer, and no light from beneath the door. He frowns. He can’t imagine that Jim has actually gone out. He knocks harder, in case he is asleep. Nothing. A vague feeling of unease gnaws at his gut. Slipping his hand into his inside pocket, he fishes out his lock pick, and quickly dispatches the lock on Jim’s door.

When he gets fully inside the apartment and flicks on the lights, he can see that Jim is sitting in the armchair, face pale, and tension is drawing lines around his eyes that are not usually there. He should wait a moment and drink this picture in – he _should_ – after all, he is supposed to be there to take glee in Jim’s suffering, but he finds – to his dismay – that his stomach twists in sympathy instead.

As Oswald looks at him, a tight grin stretches Jim’s tense face, and he takes a shallow breath to wheeze out a question. His voice is uneven, but his tone is amused.

‘Did you just break into my apartment?’

Oswald ignores this.

‘Painkillers?’

Jim exhales, his breath strained. ‘I took two acetaminophen a couple minutes ago.’

His tone is incredulous. ‘That’s what the hospital gave you?’

‘I don’t want those’ He closes his eyes tightly for a moment as the spasm starts to grip hard. ‘Need to learn to control it.’

Oswald sighs. He can’t really argue – he holds himself to the same standards, plays games with controlling his pain to prove to himself that he is in charge of it.

‘Those will take time to work, and by that time you’ll be in a knot on the floor. Sit down here, and lean your elbows on your knees, and rest your head in your hands.’

He sits down on the couch and pats the space beside him for Jim. It is testament to how much pain he is in that he does as he is told without comment. Oswald removes his own coat and jacket and, after he has rolled up his shirt sleeves, begins to slowly sweep his hands over Jim’s back, encouraging the muscles to relax. He doesn’t know his muscles well enough to knead hard, like he would with his own calf and thigh – but knows that the warm, smoothing sensation will help ease the pain, just enough to make it bearable until the drugs can kick in.

He works like this in silence for a few minutes, the only sound his palms smoothing over fabric and Jim’s shallow breathing. He tells himself determinedly that he is doing this only to place himself in a position of power, to enjoy the fact that James will have to shamefacedly thank him afterwards. Oswald prides himself on being able to spot a bad liar, though, and he finds that he is not convinced by his own performance.

He watches his own hands slide over Jim’s back. He is not discontented, in this moment – an unusual state for him – usually always thinking of what comes next. He feels calm, still.

He is not sure how much time has passed, but he feels muscles that had been knotted in spasm slowly start to loosen under his hands. James must too, as he sighs in relief.

‘You should give up crime, Cobblepot – take this up instead’

Oswald laughs in spite of himself, a genuine laugh. It’s perhaps the first sincere interaction they’ve had since he’s been coming here, or at least the first that wasn’t wrapped in anger and lies and a desire to wound.

‘I wouldn’t have much of a business – only one wounded policeman.’

Jim lets out a lazy sigh.

‘I’ll head down to the precinct, pick a few of my choicest workmates. Just line them up for me. More injured cops than you would know what to do with.’

Oswald smiles, and lets his hands press a little harder now that the muscles are relaxed. He’s not had much experience of doing this for someone else, of this kind of physical closeness - not any, really – Fish’s whims don’t count, that only made him feel servile and resentful. This, though…it’s soothing. Pleasant. He’s conscious of a growing desire for more - more touch, more warmth, and his body is unconsciously leaning closer in search of it. He stops himself short, though, angry at his own weakness when this man _betrayed_ him, and also acutely, painfully aware that he would not be welcomed – that he is unwanted.

He lifts his hands away and folds them stubbornly in his lap. Jim straightens slowly and turns to face him, a small, genuine smile on his face – completely unaware of the quarrel going on in Oswald’s head.

‘Thanks. I’ve been trying to get used to it – but it’s never been quite so bad before…Do you…?’

 _Him_ again. Oswald curses inwardly. He usually liked to talk about himself, but this was supposed to be gloating from on high, not trading confidences. It doesn’t stop him from answering, though, the intimacy of talking like this, without rules and conditions, too new and sweet to refuse.

‘It hurts every day. Worse at night. Worse if I’ve been very busy’

His voice is a little terse, still angry at himself for his uncharacteristic softness – or rather his entirely characteristic softness where Jim is concerned.

Jim frowns. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to pry…’

Oswald shakes his head slightly, manages a dismissive smile.

‘It’s fine.’

Taking a breath, he gets up from the sofa and heads towards the small kitchen.

‘Some of your lack-lustre coffee is better than nothing, I suppose’

He can feel Jim’s eyes on his back, but he keeps his attention determinedly on the task at hand.

 

**

 

When he visits for the fourth time, he brings his own coffee, as he promised he would. He also brings an extra cup for Jim, as _he_ has manners, as well as some newspapers under his arm, to steer the conversation away from dangerously personal questions about himself.

He notices that Jim seems to have made an effort to at least tidy the room.

The visit stretches on rather, from afternoon into evening, probably because Jim has apparently been keeping up with virtually no news at all, and is peppering Oswald with questions as he leafs through the newspapers. It’s an unexpected luxury to be able to converse about politics and current affairs, and he _supposes_ he can permit it, as it still allows him to lord it over Jim - seeing as he is _infinitely_ more informed and worldly-wise.

**

When he visits for the fifth time, an older woman with short grey hair is walking away from Jim’s door as he walks towards it. The door is still ajar when he reaches it, and he pushes it open curiously. A voice greets him as he enters.

‘Saw you from the window’

He sees now that Jim is standing in the middle of the floor, an exercise mat rolled up beneath his arm, his face flushed with exertion. Oswald feels an odd lightness in his chest that makes him want to smile. He suppresses this ruthlessly, looks pointedly at the exercise mat.

‘Took you long enough’ he says, tartly.

Jim only grins at him warmly.

 

**

 

By the time of the sixth visit - when they’ve fallen into an unspoken routine where Oswald casts an eye over account books while Jim reads the newspapers he’s brought, commenting aloud on this story or that, prompting cynical observations from Oswald – it occurs to him that he’s rather lost control of what these visits were supposed to be. He wonders if he was ever precisely sure.

 

**

 

By the time Oswald arrives at Jim’s apartment this afternoon, the light is already failing outside. He is limping rather more heavily today, the pain in his leg sharp and biting. Jim gives him a questioning look, but he brushes it off, gesturing vaguely to the window.

‘Slippery sidewalks take rather more effort, which leads to rather more pain. I _must_ figure out which city official I should bribe to make sure the streets are kept properly clear.’

He relishes the disapproving stare this wins.

Jim has made sandwiches to accompany their coffee, and after they have eaten, they retreat – by unspoken assent – to the couch: newspapers and account books in hand.

Oswald is glancing idly over the takings for the past month, and offering some caustic remarks on some political story Jim has mentioned, when his attention is arrested by the warmth covering his right knee. He looks down to see Jim’s hand resting there. He swallows.

‘What…what are you…?’

Jim turns to look at him, frowns as if he has said something particularly stupid.

‘You said it was painful’

‘Yes, but…’

‘You helped me’ he says simply, avoiding his eyes now, keeping them trained on the newspaper.

Their usual dynamic, then: give and take, push and pull. He’s not averse in principle – in fact, some buried part of him wants to grab greedily at the comfort being offered, but…

‘My leg is repulsive’

He hates how weak and whining his own voice sounds. It _is,_ though. He can hardly bear to look at it, avoids doing so whenever possible. So he surprises himself when, in response to Jim’s questioning look, and light tug at the hem of his pants, he gives a tight nod – allowing him to lift his trouser leg to see for himself.

He closes his eyes as he feels fabric sliding up to just above his knee, but they snap open again fast. Jim’s reaction seems curiously important – this is the only time anyone has ever touched that leg – ever touched him at all, actually, without damage on their mind.

He hears a huff of amusement, and outrage spears in his chest for a moment, before he feels an inquisitive finger slip beneath his sock suspender. He exhales and relaxes back against the cushions a little, eyes still sharp, allowing Jim to loosen it and roll his sock down enough to expose his heel and ankle.

Jim’s expression stays calm as he wraps his warm hand loosely round his ankle and then, slow and light, runs his hand upwards – his palm smoothing over the bumps and twists in the bone. When he finally arrives at his kneecap, Jim’s fingertips briefly map the misshapen surface, before simply resting his palm on it lightly, his thumb tucking neatly into the crook of Oswald’s knee.

He looks up at Oswald, his face bland – but a little flushed.

‘See? Fine.’

He turns his attention back to his newspaper and returns to lightly rubbing Oswald’s knee like he had been before. Oswald stares unseeing at his account book and tries to make sense of the fact that Jim Gordon has just flipped the world on its head.

There’s not much conversation after that, just the sound of newspaper pages rustling as Jim turns them, and Oswald scribbling in his ledger.

 

**

 

As Oswald is putting on his coat, getting ready to leave, he finds he is searching for some appropriately sarcastic comment for a parting shot – to try and restore the balance they had found before, return to safer ground, ease the ache in his chest. He glances at Jim to find that he is watching him, looking as troubled as he feels. He opens his mouth to make a glib remark, but is interrupted.

‘You…. You do _know_ , don’t you…?’

Jim is rubbing at the back of his neck, restless.

Oswald blinks in confusion.

‘I mean, you’re here and you even helped…… you must know’

Oswald arches an eyebrow. ‘Jim – are you sure you’ve only been taking acetaminophen?’

Jim looks exasperated by his facetiousness. When he replies, his voice is too loud, abrupt – like the words have been bubbling below the surface for some time.

‘I wouldn’t have left you to die in that fucking warehouse!’

Oswald stands stock still, hands by his sides – whatever temporary band aid he had applied over that memory torn off rudely. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

‘I mean – _Jesus_ – is that what you think of me? That I’d have left you chained to a fucking radiator for Maroni?

Jim looks…he looks _hurt_ \- and this infuriates Oswald beyond reason, this isn’t fair – it’s him who has the right to be hurt. He yells back at him, all pretence at nonchalance gone.

‘What was I supposed to think?! You just _stood_ there! I told you Maroni would kill me… ‘Possibly’, you said – like it was nothing! Like it was your best fucking option!’

He’s breathing hard by the time he’s done, hands clenched into fists.

They stare at each other.

It’s suddenly all too much, too exposed – he’s never this sincere – not with anyone. All his new status, all his new power – and all he feels right now is cut to the quick. He needs to think, needs to regroup.

He heads for the door and doesn’t dare look back. Jim’s silence behind him somehow feels worse than if he had hurled insults.

 

**

 

He stays away for four days and works like a man possessed, running on black coffee and nerves. Butch tells him the sudden burst of activity during the lull has unsettled the other families – they’re even more wary now, think he’s some kind of tactical genius. Oswald wonders if there’s something wrong with him, that he can manipulate so many dangerous men with ease, but cannot figure out how to salvage one half-formed friendship.

In the mid-afternoon, he likes to sequester himself on the leather sofa in his office to take an overview of the day’s business, papers strewn over the coffee table. He feels like a general, planning his attacks, and is not to be disturbed at this time. When there’s a knock at his office door, then, he feels justifiably irritated.

‘Yes?’

Gabe pokes his head round the door. ‘Visitor, boss.’

Oswald rolls his eyes. ‘Yes. I gathered that. _Who_ is visiting?’

‘That detective. Gordon.’

Oswald feels a tremor of panic. He banks it down, and affects an uninterested expression.

‘I suppose I could see him. Send him in.’

He makes himself stare down at his books as Jim enters. His footsteps sound less uneven. The physical therapy is obviously working well.

‘Well. You’ve managed to leave your apartment. Quite a fete day. I…’

He feels the couch dip beside him. He swallows. Still determinedly refuses to look at him.

‘I’m a very busy man, detective……’

‘But you made time to visit me.’

That answer knocks the breath from him, and Oswald scrambles to answer. ‘To gloat. To revel in your misfortune.’

‘Liar’

That makes his head snap round. ‘ _I’m_ a liar? You let me believe you wanted me _dead_ – let me accuse you all those weeks ago and didn’t say anything. Was it some kind of joke to you? Were you laughing at me?’

Jim shakes his head.

‘No…. _no_. I was…I felt worthless. Hated myself. And if you hated me too…I figured.... why not? You were _wrong_ – but that felt good too, feeling bitter. Self-righteous.’

Oswald feels the anger drain out of him – the honesty puncturing his own bitterness. He glances at him sidelong.

‘Self-righteousness _is_ a strength of yours’

There’s a pause.

‘I’ll be going back to work soon. Working shifts again.’

‘About time, too.’

Part of him would like to stop hurling jibes at this point, but he feels hopelessly out of his depth doing anything else. Besides, he’s beginning to suspect that Jim rather likes it. An observation that is backed up with somewhat definite proof when Jim does not answer, but starts to lean slowly towards him, sliding an arm around his shoulders and drawing him closer. Oswald blinks, and starts to babble to cover his nerves.

‘I hope you didn’t reconcile with all your friends like this.’

‘Shut up’ says Jim, before kissing him soundly.

 

**

 

They both adapt, as Oswald once advised.

They find their schedules – manic as they are – seem to mysteriously permit time to visit each other.

Coffee and newspapers on the couch quickly becomes coffee and newspapers in bed.

Jim’s injury improves sufficiently that he feels confident in the field, although he’ll never be as strong as he was. Oswald comments acidly that Bullock is hardly an Olympic athlete, and it doesn’t seem to have stopped him.

The appearance of new and unpredictable threats, the city ever-evolving, means that they work together more often than not – both favouring at least some version of order over chaos. They watch each other’s backs, bicker, reconcile, worry, and celebrate.

Life goes on.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've got this far, then thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> The title is from a longer proverb: 'Revenge is a confession of pain' - because that's what motivates Oswald's initial behaviour.
> 
> The idea of Jim being hurt after the big showdown at the warehouse popped into my head, as well as how Oswald might respond to that. I think Oswald is wonderfully, endlessly woobie-able - being little, and with a physical disability, and beaten up a lot - but he is actually incredibly tough and resilient. I wanted to make him the strong one for a change, and instead watch Jim having to deal with weakness.
> 
> Jim's injury remained non-specific - because when I started to research actual spinal injuries they were extreme and frightening. You can imagine that he has something that will limit him without causing too much incapacity.
> 
> I hope no-one sounded too OOC. I think they're both dealing with a lot, and that can affect how people react and behave.


End file.
